Chapter 10: The Fight for Justice

I insisted I had no chance to commit the crime—that the whole thing was pure slander.

I begged everyone to look at the evidence. “Please, yaaron, jhoot mat phailaao!” But the internet is a hydra—cut off one lie, ten more grow.

But the online abuse and cyberbullying didn’t stop.

The trolling only got worse. “Dekho, ab toh safai de raha hai! Pakka kuch toh gadbad hai!”

People said—

“There’s definitely something fishy here!”

A random stranger posted, “Bina aag ke dhuaan nahi uthta, bhai!”

“How come he just happened to not be at the shop those days? Isn’t that suspicious?”

Another: “Achha, toh har bar jab bacha aata hai, yeh bahar rehta hai?”

“Who knows if you secretly came back from out of town?”

“Ticket ka photo kya proof hai? Chhupke aa gaya hoga!”

They called me a beast, saying I deserved to die.

My son’s class teacher stopped talking to my wife. My old school friend blocked me.

With public opinion boiling over, even in the middle of the night, people messaged me to curse me, some even threatening to kill my whole family.

“Raat ko bhi chain nahi milta. Har waqt dhamkiyan. Baccha dar ke sota hai.”

Even though the police told the mother clearly—

Inspector Mishra called her in, read her the report, explained line by line.

Her daughter had not been violated.

He showed her the doctor’s reports. “No injury, no evidence of abuse. Your daughter is safe.”

And clarified that I had committed no crime.

He repeated, “Koi case nahi banta, madam. Aapka bacha surakshit hai.”

Logically, she should have been relieved that her daughter was safe.

Anyone would thank their stars and hug their child closer. But not her.

But she kept attacking me.

She hounded me day and night, changing stories, shouting in every possible forum.

She changed the timeline, now claiming I molested her daughter in June, not May, and that it happened in my shop in June.

She rewrote her posts, changing dates and places. But the mob didn’t care about details—only about outrage.

She posted everywhere on WhatsApp and Instagram, constantly exposing me, still insisting I molested her daughter.

Her words were copied, pasted, shared like gospel. My shop became a local landmark for all the wrong reasons.

She even went to my child’s playschool to make a scene, shouting that my child’s father was a criminal.

My son came home crying, “Papa, meri teacher keh rahi thi, aap jail jaoge?” My wife sobbed into her dupatta. Even Kabir’s friends stopped coming to play.

Hai Ram!

I looked up at the ceiling, praying for this nightmare to end. “Hey Bhagwan, kahan phas gaya main?”

Isn’t your daughter’s safety the best outcome?

Why does someone have to have molested your daughter?

The question haunted me. Did she care about the truth, or just about revenge?

Whenever anyone questioned her, she’d cry and accuse me again.

She’d post another video, fresh tears, fresh curses. Her pain never seemed to end, and neither did my torment.

Then she’d say, “I’m a single mother, it’s not easy for me, and now my three-year-old daughter has been molested.”

That phrase became her rallying cry. Even news channels ran it in headlines. “Single mother ka dard, society ki be-dardi.”

To gain sympathy, she pinned a comment on her Instagram: “No mother would frame someone at the cost of her child’s innocence.”

The words stung. “Ek maa apni beti ki izzat ke saath kabhi nahi khelegi,” she declared, and people believed her, because who would question a mother’s pain?

Under her manipulation of public opinion, my shop entrance was filled with funeral garlands.

Every morning I had to clear rotten flowers and angry notes. My hands smelled of marigolds and shame.

My father was so angry he had a stroke.

We rushed him to Ruby Hall at 3 AM. The doctors said the stress was too much. My mother blamed me, then herself, then God.

My wife was surrounded and insulted on her way home from work, breaking down in tears.

The ladies at the bus stop hissed “besharam” as she walked past. She sat on the floor of our kitchen, sobbing, clutching our son.

I saw the mother like a comment that read—

I caught her hearting a comment that said, “Inko jala do!” She wasn’t content with justice. She wanted us destroyed.

“This scumbag shop owner’s child is Kabir, goes to Sunshine Playschool. Everyone, don’t let him off! The whole scumbag family deserves to die!”

Someone posted our address, my son’s photo, and urged people to boycott us. Even the milkman stopped coming.

All this torment made me want to die.

For the first time in my life, I thought, maybe it would be better if I just disappeared. My wife held my hand, whispering, “Main hoon na, Rohan. Tere bina main kya karungi?”

After settling my wife and child back in my hometown, I called Arjun.

We put them on a night train to Nashik. My mother wept silently, her white dupatta soaked with tears. I packed their bags myself, trying to hide my own shaking hands.

“How is it? Is your family settled?” Arjun asked.

He called at dawn, voice low and tired. “Sab theek hai?”

“Pretty much. My mum is looking after my dad,” I replied.

I managed a weak smile, “Ma sab dekhegi. Papa ko dawa de diya hai.”

Arjun snorted. “Good! This time, I’ll make sure she loses everything and goes to jail!”

He banged his fist on the table. “Yeh aurat ab nahi bachegi. Main jail tak chhod ke aunga!” For the first time, I saw real fury in his eyes.